Desire Lines
by Halfling Rogue
Summary: At the casino Morte Calon, Jing demonstrated that he's in control of his own desire as well as his own destiny. . . . Right?


**DESIRE LINES**

**Disclaimer:** Inspired by a PotC/Sandman crossover drabble that I can't seem to find any more. It was wonderful, though. Jing belongs to Yuichi Kumakura, and Sandman belongs to Neil Gaiman. All I own is an overactive imagination and a second-hand bike.

**desire lines** _n._ In architecture, the non-paved paths people make across grassy areas in cutting to desired places.

**WELCOME TO MORTE CALON!**  
_O God, why did you give to man  
The crushing burden of Desire?  
The answer's clear—to give life breath.  
Without, man would not eat nor sleep  
Nor realize his hopes and schemes  
Worse than in shame  
He would die without dreams._

_Tonight, I beg Desire be loosed  
From judgments made in years gone past  
Tonight, in this casino's dark  
Be merry, light, and free to bask  
In luscious, quiv'ring opulence  
And let Want offer no defense  
For surely God, who made Desire,  
Will share a smile with Destiny  
And as for you, my dear, you'll taste  
A bliss no less than ecstasy._  
(Grappa's Invitation—Morte Calon Entrance)

It was a place of the strangest opulence. The clientèle ranged a spectrum of thieves, from the most sophisticated plotters to the most basic thugs. The golden chime of coins and slots mingled with cruel laughter and filthy language. A rich and luxuriant interior was belied by the rotting decay of a ship that held it—a pirate ship, to be sure, its hold even now cradling the luck and lives of the men (and women) who lived only for their greed.

The being known as Grappa surveyed it all with a practiced porcine eye. He knew that luck didn't matter—the gold would always flow in just as quickly as it flew out. He held the winning hand, the ace in the sleeve.

. . . Or more correctly, the ace held him.

He winced as the gentle tug reached him, the silken rope (was it a leash or a noose? He couldn't tell) that tied around his neck and pulled him inexorably towards the shadows of the furthest balcony. He couldn't resist this silent, invisible call, any more than the mortals below could resist what he offered them. It was the voice of what had made him everything that he was.

This section of the balcony was boxed and sunken, hidden by draperies and manipulated lighting. No guards were stationed, but then again, none were needed; if there was an attack, the only one who would need rescuing would be the attacker. An immaculate white hand reached from the curtained darkness and held out a crystal glass. Grappa refilled it without asking.

The voice was husky and rich and genderless, like the plush carpet under the casino below. "He hasn't arrived yet."

Grappa shook his head. It hadn't been a question; if anyone knew the answer, it would be one of _them_. "No."

"When he arrives, you know what to do."

It also wasn't a question. If he couldn't fulfill this simple task, someone more . . . _deserving_ of it would take his place.

And likely his life.

Grappa swallowed. "I know what to do. I am the piper—none can resist my song."

Eyes like antique white wine appraised him. Full lips caressed the lip of the glass in a way that made even the lord of Morte Calon shudder, the slot in his piggy-bank head itching strong. "Then let's hope you can remember the right notes."

Something in the words and the smile made Grappa stare, and keep staring, the despairing shouts of the unlucky and the jeering tone of losing slot combinations rising up from below and pounding a rhythm into his head. The death hymn of the unlucky, the song of their failure to master their own nature. And suddenly his neck was prickling with the feeling of eyes on his back, the smell of dusty old books filling his nostrils . . .

The smile widened, and the moment was gone.

A voice, young and strong, drifted through the sea of fortune below: "Well, money is a casino's raison d'être . . . "

The glass was empty again. "He's here," was all that Desire said.

-$$$-

Jing, the King of Bandits, was—once again—victorious. Morte Calon was a floating bowl of rotten wood and dirty gold pieces. Grappa was dead, his original, goldbug form laying on top of that slowly sinking bowl: the majestic funeral, as Jing had said, of the world's most expensive corpse.

Desire was furious.

"How!" S/he methodically paced the length of the remains of the casino-ship, coins sliding musically in counterpoint to his/her angry stride. The gorgeous, androgynous features were twisted into a scowl that would stop the hearts of most mortals. Water was already rising up over the sides, unnaturally stopping just short of the polished shoes. Still, the clothes remained immaculate, the night-black hair perfect, and s/he was all the more alluring for the emotion.

"How could he resist! That brat is as mortal as the rest of them; I know he is! He's as subject to my domain as he is to yours!" Desire spun around and leveled a finger at the figure standing to one side, a male figure in a hooded brown cowl that hid even the slightest suggestion of eyes, a massive old book chained to his wrist. "This is your doing, isn't it?"

The other stared Desire down with his eyeless gaze, and when he spoke his words were dry and crumbling like the fall of autumn leaves to winter, or perhaps the sun on the first desert of time, or perhaps the oldest book in the back of a forgotten library. "You know the rules as well as I, sister-brother."

Desire let out an inarticulate sound of rage and was _there_, over the threshold of his/her brother's space. "It wasn't in that book of yours, was it, dear Brother? I asked you, and _you_ know as well as _I_ that you're bound to tell me nothing or the truth. You told me that the outcome was uncertain; I should have seen. The bandit's fate was blank, and you wrote it in!"

The taller figure's lips underwent a slight pressure. Anyone who knew him would have thought he looked disconcerted. Then again, anyone who knew Destiny knew that such a thing was impossible. "I cannot write in the Book, sister-brother; I can only read it."

Desire paused, but only for a moment. "There are things that aren't written in that silly Book of yours," s/he said, dismissing with a gesture the single tome that contains everything that ever was, is, and will be. "Just because _you_ think that the brat escaped from your domain for some reason doesn't mean that he's left mine. He's human, I know he is. I've seen him in Dream's realm. If he still visits our Brother's domain, then he's still in mine."

Perfectly manicured nails curled into a tight fist, raising beads of ruby on the smoke-white skin. "I will find the King of Bandits' desire. And when I do, he'll wish away all the fortunes of his world trying to steal his control back from me."

And s/he was gone.

Destiny breathed a sigh like rustling pages. He assumed that Desire would learn the hard way that this extraordinary King, while mortal, was not like the others. Could only assume, because as Desire had guessed, the future of the boy named Jing was unknown to him. But it was not, however, because his pages were blank.

Destiny shook his head and also took leave to his own domain. Yes, Desire would probably have to learn the hard way . . .

. . . After all, it took a pretty extraordinary boy to steal pages from the Book.

**.Owari.?.**

**A.N.:** Sorry about that; I haven't reread Sandman in ages, so I apologize if the Endless seem OOC. I also hope I described them well enough for anyone unfamiliar with the series. On top of that, the entire fic seemed to wind up taking a completely different turn from what I had in mind, but that's happened so often now that I just try to ignore it.

And come on, if anyone can steal pages from the Book of Destiny, it's Jing. ;)

Please review, and let me know if you think a follow-up to this would be nice.


End file.
